Assumptio

Assumptio (as-sump’-ti’o): The introduction of a point to be considered, especially an extraneous argument. 

See proslepsis (When paralipsis [stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over] is taken to its extreme. The speaker provides full details.)

I dropped my flashlight, and it went out, and total darkness descended. I was in the middle of the woods looking for a rare nocturnal slug. They were so rare that they were worth millions. That was a good reason to hunt them, but it was rumored that they could talk. They weighed up to 10 pounds and left a wide slime trail I was hunting the logos maximus for all these reasons, but really, it was the slug’s color that compelled me to hunt it: the slug was brown with a yellow stripe. What could be more fascinating? A sock with a hole? A blender? A leg brace?A three-legged pig? No. None of the above. Well, maybe a red cat. Or, an ivory shoe horn. Or, a half-used roll of aluminum foil. I don’t know. I have trouble rank-ordering, hierarchies, and increments. Especially increments. People say about me: “Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.” That means that I can’t measure.

But anyway, I heard a squishing sound in the darkness. I got down on my hands and knees and could barely make out what looked like a jiggly watermelon inching past. It was a logos Maximus. I wanted take a picture, but I couldn’t find my phone. The slug said “What’s the matter shithead, can’t find your phone?” I was shocked by the talking slug. I asked what his name was. He told me slugs don’t have names, but you can call me Vick. I asked him what it was like to be so rare and relentlessly hunted. He told me it was “a pain in the ass.” I agreed as I squatted to pick him up and stuff him in my slug hunting bag. When I grabbed him he screamed, started squirming violently and cursing. He slimed up and slipped out of my hands.

He took off like a bat out of hell. I took off running after him. We were headed down the bank of a creek. I made a move to bag him and I tripped over a log and stepped on him. It was like stepping in a bowl of jello. Vick died. He liquified and soaked into the ground. All I could think was “I was so close.” I hadn’t gotten to know Vick that well, so I didn’t care that much about killing him. In fact, I was kind of angry that he liquified. I didn’t even have a trophy to mount on my living room wall over the fireplace.

When I got home, there was a large slug trail leading to my front door. I got in my car and drove away and never went back.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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